


Fluidity and Freedom

by QueenRedhead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Genderfluid Aziraphale, Genderfluid Crowley, I swear, Kinda canon compliant, M/M, Pansexual Crowley, There's not gonna be a lot of focus on their m/f relationship, and fluff, but mostly angst sprinkled with fluff, but the whole idea is that their relationship transcends gender, if i missed any important tags just let me know i'll probably add more as i think of them, pansexual Aziraphale, there's a happy ending though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenRedhead/pseuds/QueenRedhead
Summary: Under constant pressure from their respective sides to look and act a certain way, Aziraphale and Crowley navigate gender expression and the love they hold for one another.





	1. Tonya

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sad I couldn't get this out before Pride Month ended, but then again, every month is Pride Month if you're not a quitter, so here we go!

The year is 2001. Or, more precisely, it’s the end of 2001. December 31st. New Year’s Eve. Nearly six thousand years have passed since the creation of the world, and nearly eighteen years will pass before the supposed end of it. But no one on Earth knows that, yet, so it’s probably best not to worry about it.

Aziraphale has much bigger things to worry about right now. He’s in quite the pickle. The same pickle he’s gotten himself into every year since modern celebrations of the New Year started growing larger and more ferocious. He’s hungry, and every single restaurant in London is packed. Even trying to order take out is impossible because everyone else in the entire country is also ordering take out. So he has to scour the city for somewhere that will take his order. And before you ask, yes, this is easier than cooking himself something. Anything is easier than cooking when you don’t have a kitchen.

He just wishes he would remember to make reservations beforehand. You can only miracle yourself dinner so many times before you get a memo from upstairs telling you to knock it off.

Thus, he scours.

It hasn’t been winter for very long, so it’s impossible to make a statement for the whole of it, but so far, it’s been underwhelming. Cold, but not as cold as it could be. Snowy, but not as snowy as it could be. Aziraphale, bundled against the weather for no other reason than to keep up appearances, strolls down the street, marveling once again at how quickly the sun sets in the winter. He’s been on Earth for just about as long as it’s existed, and he knows more about it than any human could, but still, this planet will never cease to amaze him. He breathes out a white cloud of steam, watching as it slowly dissipates. It’s the little things that charm him. The tiny quirks of life. Of humanity. God made everything and everyone in Her image, so why shouldn’t he enjoy it? He, of all people, places, things, and ideas, should appreciate it the most, because he understands the value of everything this world has to offer.

Which includes, among other things, delicious meals. Meals he knows other people are enjoying based on the amalgam of pleasant smells wafting through the air. If his stomach could growl, it would, and with a new persistence, he strolls on, determined to secure one of those meals for himself. Hopefully before the New Year officially arrives.

After several failed attempts, he stumbles into a cozy little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that, at first glance, might have been mistaken for some kind of sport’s bar or gentlemen’s lounge. Thankfully, in his desperation, he read the establishment’s sign carefully to confirm that it is, indeed, a place that serves food and only food. No funny business. 

The interior is much warmer than the outside world, likely thanks to the lit fireplace in one of the far corners. None of the furniture matches, and the presence of both mounted taxidermy animal heads and brightly colored abstract paintings makes it difficult to determine the “theme” of the restaurant. But maybe, in a really post-modern way, that’s the point.

Compared to every other place he’s tried, this one is relatively empty. A few handfuls of people, many of them couples, sit at the mismatched tables with their mismatched chairs and mismatched cutlery, eating entrees that look impeccably well put together. Even fewer people sit at the bar, but that’s mostly because the bar has fewer seats. Light conversation floats throughout the air, and every so often a burst of laughter will rise above the quiet clinking of glass and silverware.

It smells a bit musty in that way old (and often damp) things do, but Aziraphale hardly notices. It’s a smell he’s gotten used to after hoarding rare books for the last couple centuries. (Although, he will brag that he’s kept his books in such good condition that none of them have any fraction of water damage.)

The host, standing at a small podium right by the door, nods at Aziraphale and says, “Table for one, sir?”

Aziraphale smiles and begins to remove his extra layers. “Yes, please, thank you--”

That’s when he spots her. Sipping scotch at the bar in a black pantsuit and heels so sharp they could cut a man’s throat. And maybe they have. Golden straps shaped like snakes slither up her ankles, matching the bracelets that peek out from under her sleeves. Her hair is long and auburn. It looks effortlessly windswept like she just stepped out of a beach photoshoot. Her lipstick is charcoal black, her jawline is cut from stone, and she couldn’t have better cheekbones if she tried. She’s terrifying in every sense of the word. Not the kind of person Aziraphale would normally associate with. But there’s something strikingly familiar about her.

And he’s only ever known one person to wear such perfectly circular retro sunglasses.

“Crowley?”

He says the name loud enough for the host to give him an odd look, but the woman doesn’t respond. Either she didn’t hear, or she’s not who he thinks she is.

But what are the odds?

He takes a few more steps toward her, fully disengaging from the host, awkwardly holding his scarf and extra coat, and when he’s within speaking distance he says, a bit louder, “Crowley? Is that you?”

The woman’s posture stiffens, and her grip on her drink tightens, but she doesn’t turn to face him. She just keeps staring at the dirty little TV behind the bar playing news coverage of the New Year around the world. For a moment, Aziraphale wonders if he’s got it all wrong. What if he’s wrong, and he’s making some poor stranger uncomfortable?

He frets over this silently until he notices something underneath her hair. A small, winding pattern etched into the side of her face. That’s when he becomes certain that she absolutely did hear him.

She’s just trying very hard to pretend she didn’t.

He can’t fathom why. They didn’t leave each other on bad terms the last time they spoke. Granted, the last time they spoke, she wasn’t a she, but he doesn’t see why that would change anything. Perplexed, forgetful of his hunger, and suddenly empty-handed, he comes up directly beside her and says, “Crowley, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but--"

Finally, she looks at him and snaps, “Would you keep your voice down? Just broadcast that name to the whole bloody world, why don’t you?”

The low rumble of her voice sends a small shock down his spine. This catches him off guard because a woman’s voice has never elicited such a response from him. Then again, he thinks, this is Crowley, and Crowley is the only one who’s ever been able to do that in the first place.

“What?” he says, quieter this time. He takes a seat on the stool next to hers and leans in so their conversation can be more hushed. “What are you talking about? And what are you doing? I’ve never seen you so…” he grapples for something to say and ends up motioning vaguely toward her body.

This makes her snort. “So what? Woman-shaped?”

“Yes, exactly! Woman-shaped.” He nods to himself. “Not that that’s a bad thing, not at all, it’s just… new.”

“I suppose it is new,” she says. She downs the rest of her scotch and turns to face him. Some of the annoyance has left her expression. Not all of it, but some. At the very least, she’s more relaxed than she was a moment ago. Raising an arm, she waves two fingers at the bartender, thanking him when he brings two more glasses of alcohol and whisks the empty one away. She keeps one for herself and pushes the other toward Aziraphale, who looks at it, but doesn’t take it.

“Go on,” she says.

“Not until you explain to me what’s going on.”

She groans, her head lolling back. “You’re still on that? I thought we’d moved on from it.”

“Moved on from it? We haven’t talked about it all!” He narrows his eyes. “Why are you so dodgy? What sorts of evil plans do you have in the works, Crow--”

Her hand shoots up to press one finger against his lips. He quiets immediately, face reddening.

“Shut up with that name,” she hisses. “You have no idea who could be listening.”

He nods slowly, slightly distracted by the warmth of her skin. So much warmer than his. Always has been. 

When she thinks he understands, she takes her hand away and says, “If you want an explanation, you’re gonna have to stop calling me that.”

He gathers enough of his wits to be a little indignant. “Then what am I to call you?”

“Tonya.”

“Tonya,” he echoes. He says it slowly, considering the way each syllable feels in his mouth. She stares back at him like she’s waiting for his verdict, so he nods a bit and says, “It’s nice. Ah, pretty.”

Seemingly satisfied, Tonya exhales and takes a sip of her drink. “Alright. Where to begin?”

“The beginning?” Aziraphale offers.

Tonya gives him a look, and he realizes she meant the question rhetorically. In an attempt to save face, he clears his throat and waits for her to continue.

And after a small pause, she does.

“If we’re talking from the very beginning,” she says, “I started taking this shape a few decades ago, in the late sixties. Wasn’t long after you’d… well, you remember.”

Aziraphale does. He remembers very well. Yet another thing to speak in hushed tones about. Yet another moment tied up in confusion, frustration, and some sort of hard to taste but lingering bitter-sweetness. He risked everything he had to get that holy water. He put every ounce of his trust into the demon to use it responsibly. And then he said the one sentence he’s never been able to forget:

_“You go to fast for me, Crowley.”_

That sentence haunts him. It’s stayed with him, tirelessly, every moment since he said it, and he’s never been able to shake it off. How could he? It’s the most up front he’s ever been about his feelings. It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to a confession, but, as usual, all the things he really wanted to say got caught in his throat, all snagged on sadness and anxiety because any proper declaration of his feelings, he’s sure, would ultimately lead to their deaths. Not discorporations. Deaths. And he couldn’t let that happen to Crowley. Or Tonya. As much as he wishes he could keep up with them, as much as he wants to run up and take them into his arms and never let them stray away from him again, it’s better that they stay apart. He’d rather live and admire them from afar than die and never see them again.

Although, he can tell from the way Tonya clenches her jaw that she feels much differently than he does.

“Anyway,” she says, “I’d blocked out a lot of my schedule for that heist, so after cancelling it I had a lot of free time on my hands. I was a bit bored, a bit restless, had a lot of extra energy, so I decided, hey, why not reinvent my entire image for a day? That sounds fun, right? So, without much of a plan in mind, I just started experimenting. Went through loads of hairstyles and outfits, tons of them, really, but nothing felt quite right until I got the idea that maybe my whole form was off. That’s when I thought, y’know, I’ve never tried looking like a woman before. Maybe I should. Could be fun. And, as I found out, it was! Sometimes I go to bars, or restaurants, or other public places, and I just go about my business. I once went to the beach in a bikini, if you can believe it, and I loved it. It’s so fun. Looking like this and acting like this, it’s unbelievably fun. And comfortable. And… right.”

She takes a moment to drink, and Aziraphale notices she seems slightly breathless. Then, he realizes he’s quite a bit breathless himself. Tonya hasn’t noticed, though. She’s off in her own little world right now.

“I mean, it doesn’t feel right _all_ the time. I don’t like to be woman-shaped _all_ the time, but _some_ of the time, it’s really nice, and I like it a lot. Just existing like this makes me feel good,” she says. Her cheeks are rosy. It could be the alcohol, but it’s probably not. And Aziraphale can’t see her eyes through her sunglasses, but it seems like she isn’t looking straight at him. “And, another perk I’ve noticed is that when I’m in this shape, Hell doesn’t contact me.”

Aziraphale breaks out of a trance he didn’t realize he was in. “What?”

“I know!” Tonya exclaims, almost slapping the bar but thinking better of it. “And I mean, to be fair, I try really hard to avoid points of contact when I’m in this shape, like my flat, and my car.” A shadow of longing passes over her face. “But it’s not like those are the only ways they can reach me, right? And I’ve never heard a thing from them. Not a word. Zip. Nada. I was confused until I realized something: No one expects reports from me. They expect reports from a male-shaped version of me. So as long as I look like a woman, it feels like I’m… Free. It feels like I can walk around and do whatever I want because I’m free. No one demands anything of me. No temptations. No blessings. I get to exercise free will, so instead of being a demon pretending to be a human, I can pretend I actually _am_ a human, if that makes any sense. Cuz humans don’t have to worry about the powers that be unless they really want to. They just get to exist and make whatever choices they want, good or bad. It’s exhilarating. I’ve actually been tossing around the idea of getting another little flat to hang around in when I’m in this shape, just to have somewhere to stay long term if I feel like it, but I digress.”

Digress she does, but Aziraphale is so struck he doesn’t notice. He can’t completely understand what she’s talking about, as he’s never taken any shape other than his current one, but he can sympathize. He can certainly sympathize. “Is that so?”

She nods. “Maybe it’s all a bit ridiculous, but--”

“No!” Aziraphale interjects. She looks at him in surprise, and he continues, “It’s not ridiculous. Maybe dangerous, maybe _very_ dangerous, but… You’re sure Hell has no idea?”

“Mostly sure. Ninety-five percent sure.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales slowly. “And this truly makes you happy?”

Her expression softens considerably. “It does.”

“Then I support you.”

The silence that spreads between them is warm and sweet as maple syrup on fresh pancakes. Tonya smiles. It’s a real, genuine smile born of something other than sarcasm or bitterness, and for that, Aziraphale is thankful. He smiles back, and finally, he takes a sip of his drink.

Then Tonya asks, “What are you doing out here, anyway? A bit far from home, aren’t you?”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I am,” he says. “See, I was looking for somewhere to eat.”

She raises an eyebrow. “On New Year’s Eve?”

Aziraphale pouts. “The date snuck up on me.”

“Maybe you should invest in a planner. Or a calendar.”

“I have a calendar!”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, you haven’t been over in a while.”

The corner of Tonya’s mouth twists downward. Aziraphale worries he’s brought up a sore subject, but to his surprise, Tonya says, “We’ll have to fix that, then, won’t we?”

Aziraphale stammers for a moment before nodding. “Ah, yes. Yes, we will.”

“But before that,” she says, standing up, “you must still be hungry. How about some dinner? My treat.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask--”

“Angel,” she says, and Aziraphale melts.

“Well, alright… Thank you, Cr--” He catches himself just in time. “I mean, Tonya. Thank you, Tonya.”

She just about grins.

“It’s my pleasure, anyway,” she says. After placing some money on the bar to pay for their drinks, she motions for Aziraphale to follow her toward the dining section. “At least this way I'll have someone to kiss at midnight.”

Aziraphale, who had been trying to finish the rest of his drink, chokes and flushes scarlet. He can’t tell whether or not she’s joking.

He also can’t tell whether or not he _wants_ her to be joking.

They sit at a table for two after that, dining and chatting in that easy way they’ve always been able to. And as they do, Aziraphale’s mind begins to wander. He thinks over everything Tonya described, and he wonders what it must feel like to live like that, to live free from the pressures of heavenly appearance. Of course he loves Heaven. Of course he has very strong faith in Heaven. But what would it be like to live a day out of sight?

What would it be like to live a day in a different shape?

These thoughts float listlessly around in his mind for the rest of the night, all throughout dinner, and dessert, and second dessert, and three glasses of wine, and the walk back to his book shop, and the several hours he and Tonya spend there, well past midnight and everything it has to offer.


	2. Zira Fell

Summer in London is not unlike winter in London: chill, dreary, and a bit wet. The biggest difference is that during summer, there’s a small chance the clouds will grow bored of their constant circling and decide to bugger off somewhere else for an afternoon or two, thus allowing real, genuine sunlight to grace the gray city. Fortunately for everyone, this afternoon is one of those. Droves of restless, vitamin D deficient people take advantage of the good weather by hustling and bustling about the streets. Some have reason to hustle. Some do not. In the midst of it all is Crowley, currently in male-shape, who slithers along toward a quaint little coffee shop that is not nearly as busy as it could be.

It’s a very pleasant little shop. The exposed wood paneling is warm and rustic, and the smell of brewing coffee and freshly made pastries is incredibly inviting. There isn’t much of a line when he walks in, but as he stands waiting, hands in his pockets, one hip cocked in a posture he couldn’t correct even if he tried, several more people file in to form a longer line behind him. By the time it’s his turn to order, the line is threatening to spill out the door, and the woman at the counter is smiling at him in that way food service workers do when they don’t care about you at all but still want to seem polite.

“What can I get started for you?” she asks.

Crowley places a finger to his chin and pretends to look through the menu. He hums to himself, and several times he raises his finger like he might start to order, but then he sighs, shakes his head, and replaces his finger to continue pondering. Behind him, the line continues to grow longer. Some people have resorted to cramming themselves against the back wall to avoid getting hit by the door, which makes finding the end of the line all the more difficult for new arrivals and leaves everyone feeling wholly uncomfortable. The air is alight with the subtle sounds of impatience: foot tapping, throat clearing, tongue clicking, and, worst of all, disgruntled sighing. Still, Crowley ponders, seemingly unbothered by all of it.

The woman at the counter smiles at him in that way food service workers do when they’re getting fed up but still want to seem polite. “Sir?”

“Just one more minute,” he says, “I’ve almost got it.”

“Sir, there’s a long line behind you--”

“Right, right. Long line. Don’t wanna hold up a long line,” he says dismissively. “But I nearly have it. Just hold on. One more minute.”

He stands there silently for two more minutes, letting the tension grow thicker and sharper and more corporeal until finally he says, “Okay, I’m ready.”

He then proceeds to rattle off the longest coffee order known to humankind. Every single square inch of his coffee is accounted for, from the type of milk to the number of espresso shots to the amount of each available flavor and even the exact temperature he wants. Then he goes a step further by naming, relevant or not, all the things he doesn’t want in his coffee. The whole process takes upwards of three minutes, but to everyone listening, it feels more or less like an eternity.

The champion behind the counter records all of this and, after confirming his order and asking him if he wants anything else, gives him the absurd price of the coffee, which he pays for in single dollar bills.

As the woman hands him his receipt and his change, he peers at her name tag and says, “Thank you very much, ah… Maria.”

Maria, whose name is actually Mariah, smiles at him in that way food service workers do when they hate your bloody guts and would easily bludgeon you to death with whatever is at hand were it not for their stupid minimum wage job that doesn’t even have proper benefits but pays for their shitty little studio apartment and sometimes a full meal but still wants to seem polite, and she says through gritted teeth, “Thank you, sir. We hope to serve you again.”

Crowley grins back at her and saunters off to find a place to wait while the baristas scramble to follow his arbitrary instructions. No better way to evoke Wrath than to make people resent their jobs, if you ask him. Head office, he thinks, ought to be happy with this one.

And if they aren’t, he’ll convince them that they should be.

He finds a plush blue chair right by the pick-up area and sinks down into it. There are several others like it scattered around the shop, along with a few small tables for people who come in with friends, dates, or laptops. Brilliant little devices those are, laptops. They give humans easy access to the Internet, which has the potential to grow into the most efficient temptation tool Hell has ever seen. Crowley’s crunched the numbers. There’s already millions of websites, many of them saturated with content that would make Lord Beelzebub blush, and within the next ten to fifteen years, those numbers are projected to go up astronomically. 

He considered taking credit for it, but he decided against it when he realized no one in Hell would have the foggiest idea what the Internet is. Demons are so stuck in the past. The whole lot of them. Angels, too. Well, he only knows one angel personally, but the angel he knows couldn’t tell a pager from a cellular phone if his Earthly form depended on it.

_ “You’re surely out of your right mind, my dear boy. These two electronical contraptions are entirely identical! No matter. I send all of my correspondences through homing pigeon. I don’t even know what a fax machine is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must put this antique kettle that once belonged to Oscar Wilde’s cat on for a spot of tea, and we’re hereditary enemies, so you must leave, but I suppose you could also stay if you wanted to, which would be totally out of my control and therefore absolve me of any guilt. Pip pip. Jolly good. Mind how you go.” _

_ Hah, yeah _ , Crowley thinks fondly,  _ that’s exactly what he’d say. _

He’s trying very hard to bite back a smile when he hears one of the baristas call out, “A large hot cocoa and toasted chocolate croissant for, uh… Zira Fell!”

Crowley’s brow crinkles.

‘Uh… Zira Fell.’

Hm.

Maybe it’s just because of the thoughts he’s entertaining, but that name sounds very familiar.

Sitting up a little higher in his chair, Crowley watches as pretty blonde woman in a white cotton sundress approaches the pick-up area. She walks on flat gold sandals with braided straps that match the braided gold belt tied around her middle. Her hair is short, just barely brushing her shoulders, and it somehow manages to look fluffy without looking messy at all. Sort of like feathers. And her face is kind. So kind. The kind of face you’d expect from a doting mother or a patient primary school teacher. She gives the barista a sweet smile as she thanks him for her order, and he smiles back like he just realized he should give his favorite older female family member a call.

Just like that, everything clicks.

“Angel!”

The woman jumps, yelping like she’s been caught. It doesn’t occur to Crowley until she’s already turning to him, a guilty look on her face, that she absolutely saw him as she approached the pick-up area. He’s out in the open. No disguises. No tricks. There’s no way she could have missed him. She just tried very hard to pretend she did, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. He can’t fathom why. Out of every being on this planet, occult, ethereal, human, or otherwise, Crowley is probably the most likely to understand what she’s doing and how she’s feeling.

But it’s always been this way, hasn’t it? Them and their shared experiences. Ever since the beginning. Not that the angel will ever admit it. Crowley has almost convinced himself to accept that fact, but it still stings. And getting blown off doesn’t make it any better.

As he stands up, he tries to be angry. He tries so hard to be offended, and affronted, and disgusted, and rankled, but he takes one look at her face, her red, flustered,  _ ashamed _ face, and he can barely muster up enough anger to be slightly miffed. He just can’t stay mad at that face. It’s impossible.

And it’s always been this way, hasn’t it?

After several failed attempts to find the right words, the woman, Zira, says, “I know this doesn’t look good for me, and I can explain.”

Crowley snorts. “I’m sure you can.” Looking past her, out into the rest of the coffee shop, he spots an unoccupied table and gestures to it. “Let’s have a seat, shall we? Since we have so much to catch up on?”

Zira nods and immediately makes her way over to the table. Crowley follows and takes the seat opposite hers, sitting in such a way that his legs stick out between their table and the one next to theirs, creating an obstacle for anyone wanting to get through. Zira makes a face and opens her mouth to make a comment, but Crowley cuts her off.

“Zira Fell? Really?” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Couldn’t come up with anything more… creative?”

She scoffs. “Ah, yes, because Tonya was the absolute pinnacle of your creative ability.”

“Ouch. Point taken.”

She takes a drink of hot cocoa and a bite of croissant, surprisingly literally no one. The world could be ending, and Zira would still insist on finding somewhere to have lunch. Crowley has never known anyone else, human or otherwise, who enjoys food as much as the angel does, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t completely charmed by it.

He gives her a moment to savor her bite before he hits her with the real question. “So, how long has,” he gestures up and down vaguely in her direction, “all  _ this _ been going on, then? Your experimenting?”

He likes that word, ‘experimenting’. It’s the word he’s been using to describe the state of his gender expression, and he likes it because of its impermanence. Not to say his forays into being Tonya are some sort of phase, because they’re not, and he plans on looking like a woman as often as he wants for the rest of his existence regardless of what anyone else has to say on the matter. It’s more like he enjoys the lack of expectations. Calling himself a ‘man’ comes with the expectations of dressing, talking, and acting like a ‘man’. Same with calling himself a ‘woman’. But experimenting means throwing all those expectations out the window and working with however he feels in the moment. It’s much more… fluid. He likes that word, too. He might have to use it more often.

Zira, having apparently dreaded the question, sighs. She smooths her dress and adjusts the little paper bag her croissant came in so it’s more parallel to her cup. Then she looks up, sees Crowley watching her expectantly, and sighs again. “Well, I suppose it started not long after New Year’s Eve.”

They both take a quiet moment, not quite looking at each other. It was a night to remember, and a night they agreed to be discreet about.

Zira clears her throat and continues, “After hearing how much you enjoy being Tonya, I began to think about my own shape and how it might feel to try something different for a day. So, I tried it, and I found I rather liked it. I felt… oddly fulfilled? Maybe a bit lighter? I’m not sure how else to describe it. And now I walk around in this shape every so often, just for the sake of it. You know how it is.”

“Why, yes, I rather think I do know how it is,” Crowley, with his head resting in his hand, says. “I think I know very well.”

Zira sighs for the third time. Not that anyone (Crowley) is counting. “I understand if you’re upset with me for avoiding you, but-”

“I dunno if upset is the right word,” Crowley drawls. “Insulted? A bit. Betrayed? Maybe. But upset? I think I’ve moved past that.”

“However you want to call it,” Zira says, already exasperated. “I know you’re not pleased with me, but it’s just safer this way. Heaven hasn’t caught onto me, yet, but there’s no saying they won’t notice eventually--”

Crowley laughs sharply, his hand falling to the table. “Safety? That’s your excuse?” he says, maybe a bit too loudly. “You weren’t so worried about safety when you took Tonya back to your bookshop and spent the whole night--”

“Would you  _ please _ quiet down?” Zira says in a low, pointed voice. She looks around briefly to ensure no one is looking at them, then she leans in a bit closer and says, “If you  _ must _ know, I’m not just worried about safety, although that is an important aspect of it and I’ll thank you not to dismiss my anxiety.”

Still riled up but unwilling to seem like the jerk in this situation, Crowley sits back in his chair and crosses his arms moodily. “Go on, then. I’m all ears.”

Zira fiddles with her drink for a moment before saying, “Well, you see, the thing is, while this is  _ not _ the first time I’ve been in this shape, it’s the first time I’ve been so… adventurous with my clothing choices, and if I’m being totally honest, I’m a little bit, ah… you know…” She brings the cup to her lips, mumbling the rest of her sentence into it before taking a drink.

Crowley, however, refuses to back down. “What was that?”

“You knooow… A little…”

“Angel.”

“Embarrassed!” she blurts out. She and Crowley look at each other dead-on for one stunned second before Zira decides the middle of the table is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. “I’m embarrassed! This is my first time ever wearing a sundress, and I like the way it feels, but it’s  _ so _ different from slacks and vests and jackets and everything else I’m used to, so I’m a little self-conscious about it, and… and I didn’t want to introduce myself as Zira Fell before I felt completely confident. I just…” She glances up at Crowley briefly, knocking the wind out of him as she says, “I just wasn’t ready yet.”

“Angel…” Crowley breathes, instantly softening. Zira goes back to staring at the table, and he tries to think of something to say. It makes so much sense for her to be unsure of herself. Experimenting is brand new to her, and the angel has always liked to take things slow. Painfully slow, sometimes. But that’s beside the point. He thinks back to when he first started experimenting and what he would have appreciated hearing. “Well… Personally, I like the sundress. I think it suits you.”

Zira’s head snaps up, her expression dripping with relief. “Oh, really? You think so?”

Crowley, trying to play it cool, replies, “Of course I do. That’s why I said it.”

And when Zira smiles, a genuine, happy smile, Crowley swears he feels his heart burst.

“Thank you, my dear,” she says. “I was  _ so _ worried it might not look right, but that makes me feel much better.”

“Any time,” Crowley says with a shrug. “I’ve been in your position before. If there’s anything else you’re worried about, I can probably give you some advice about it.”

Taking another bite of her croissant, Zira chews thoughtfully. Then, after she swallows, she says, “There is  _ one _ other thing I’ve been thinking about.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“I… Is it… Am  _ I _ … Am I strange?”

Crowley furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“For being this way,” she clarifies. The way she looks at him, sad and afraid, is downright heartbreaking. “For wanting to look like a woman as much as I want to look like a man. For  _ liking _ it. Does that make me strange?”

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley says, tenderly and emphatically. “No, angel. Heavens no.”

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and takes Zira’s hand. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture. It’s meant to be a sign of his support. Nothing more. Nothing less. But Zira looks at their hands. And Crowley looks at her face. And time freezes.

It’s like the entire rest of the world disappears. All that’s left is Crowley, Zira, the place where their hands meet, and the sound of their rapidly beating hearts.

And as Crowley looks at the angel, he thinks to himself,  _ Please, someone, anyone… Please, make her stay. _

But since when has anyone ever listened to his prayers?

The moment, their moment, like any other moment, passes. Zira, bright red, pulls her hand away and quickly stands up, spouting out some excuse about how her books need dusting so she really ought to get going. Before Crowley can think to stand, or speak, or even reach for her, she grabs her things, turns, and rushes out of the coffee shop, the other patrons parting for her like the Red Sea parted for Moses.

He stares after her, his hand half-raised, his voice failing before it even gets a chance to start, and he slowly deflates into his chair, overcome with the thought that no matter what shape they’re in, he’s going to have to watch his angel leave.

It’s always been this way, hasn’t it?

He takes a deep breath, and as he exhales, he hears one of the baristas call out his name and order. Standing numbly, without pushing in his chair, he goes over to the pick-up area and grabs the cup he finds waiting there. The barista barely has time to warn him about how hot it is before he drops it into the trash bin and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo I know this is super late and I have literally no excuses but I hope this chapter was worth the wait!! 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who's subscribed to this story. Y'all are champions for bearing with my erratic writing schedule :'D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you want to watch me cope with stress by cracking jokes (or you want info about requests), you can follow me on Twitter: [Queen_Redhead](https://twitter.com/Queen_Redhead)
> 
> Or, if you have any questions about me or what I do (especially if you want to remain anonymous), here's my Curious Cat: [Queen_Redhead](https://curiouscat.me/Queen_Redhead)


End file.
